Lanterns

by Patricia Veryan

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  CHAPTER I

  SUSSEX, ENGLAND

  Autumn, 1818

  “No, I hasn’t forgot what I promised.” Arthur Warrington peered through the gathering dusk and said in a half-whisper, “But it’s not quite dark yet. ’Sides, the castle doesn’t frighten you, Friar, mighty warrior that you are.”

  They were very close to forbidden territory now. Lanterns loomed up, a gloomy immensity, black against the darkening sky, stretching from here to the very edge of the cliffs. Arthur scrambled over a low and crumbling wall, then paused briefly before squaring his slight shoulders and flinging his cloak back so as to come at his sword. His companion sprang onto the wall and he hissed, “They’ve got her in the Haunted Castle, sure’s sure. An’ we must come to the rescue, y’know.” The sword managed to catch itself in his cloak, but he succeeded in wrenching it forth at last, and waved it in the approved fashion while proclaiming “Forward!” in an unapproved whisper.

  Misunderstanding, Friar Tuck leapt to engage the whirling weapon. He was told sternly to stop “playing about,” whereupon he sat down and sulked.

  “Come on,” said Arthur urgently. “You mustn’t d’sert me now, Friar. I’m the bravest outlaw what ever was, but I can’t fight all the wicked Sheriff’s men at arms all ’lone!” A thought striking him, he muttered, “I wonder why they call ’em men at arms. Everyone’s got arms.” He glanced at Friar Tuck who was now preening his whiskers and added apologetically, “Well, almost everyone. Anyway, we’d best get on, or Etta will fuss an’ Aunty Dova’s sure to blame—”

  The sentence died away and would never be completed. Arthur Warrington, aged almost five, was struck to terrified silence, and Friar Tuck, of the ginger-and-white persuasion, shot back over the wall without a thought for poor Maid Marion.

  Somewhere amid the ruins of the Haunted Castle a door had opened and closed again. Briefly, figures had been silhouetted against a glow of light: two men, who now carried a shapeless burden across the low bridge towards a coach and four that had waited in the shadows.

  A deep voice said curtly, “You know what you are to do, Mac?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “You’ll be careful? We want no witnesses.”

  The second man, who talked like Hamish who’d been their gardener in London, said, “I well ken that, forbye!”

  There was a faint sound. A moan perhaps.

  Arthur’s trembling knees seemed to melt under him so that he slid down and crouched beside the wall. But despite his thundering heart he peeped over the top.

  “Whatever happens, she must never be found. You understand me?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The furtive pair had reached the coach, a spectral shape with no lamps lit. Arthur could see only their outlines as a third man held the door open, and they lifted their burden inside.

  The Scottish voice grumbled, “This grim, glum, bogleridden ruin isnae a safe place for ye tae bide, sir, and ye knows it. I’ve nae wee joy in the Big Smoke, but I’d sooner see ye there! If Ti Chiu comes sniffin’ aboot—”

  “London’s too noisy,” interrupted the first voice impatiently. “And Ti Chiu would create less notice there, whereas here he’d stand out like a sore thumb, as would his master. Be off with you!”

  Arthur ducked lower.

  The carriage door slammed, the horses snorted and pawed eager hooves at the cobblestones, and there was the sound of a window being let down.

  “But, how can ye manage tae—”

  “Have done! Daniel—go!”

  The crack of a whip. Heavy wheels crunched and rattled, leathers creaked, and the hoofbeats became a steady and fading pounding.

  Straining his ears, Arthur heard not the faintest sound of footsteps, but when he dared to peep over the wall again the man who’d stayed was nowhere to be seen.

  It was a long time before he summoned the courage to creep from his hiding place, and not until he was well up the slope did he dare follow the example of the craven Friar Tuck, and make a mad dash for home

  * * *

  The dower house, a square and spacious dwelling, was situated at the northwest corner of the Lanterns estate. Although more than a mile inland, it had been built on rising ground and in good weather offered an unobstructed view of the English Channel and the French coastline. It was a far cry from the luxurious elegance of Sir Lionel Warrington’s London mansion, but his elder daughter, Miss Marietta Warrington, blessed with the happy facility of making the best of things, had come to think that they might have done a great deal worse than to have settled here.

  “No matter what you say, there is absolutely no reason for them to call here so often,” she remarked now, as she crossed the large kitchen to set the teapot on the tray with gentle care. The old silver tea service, besides being a thing of beauty, was a relic of their former life and as such was to be handled reverently. “What could Sir Gavin Coville possibly find to interest him here?” she went on, keeping her voice low. “Our home is humble—”

  “Now,” put in Fanny, looking glum as she extracted warm scones from a baking pan.

  “—And he is not the type of man to have formed a tendre for dear Aunty Dova.”

  At this Fanny uttered a shriek of mirth, clapped a hand over her mouth, then said between giggles, “She is in there now, you know, and Sir Gavin is being very polite, but I can scarce wait for the day when he sees her go into her dance. Already, he judges her ripe for Bedlam!”

  Marietta, who was deeply attached to her high-spirited younger sister, tried to look stern but was undone by the sparkle in the big hazel eyes and failed to repress an answering smile. “He can have very little in common with my father, and he certainly must be aware that Papa suffered a great loss on the Exchange.”

  “On the tables at White’s and Watier’s, more like,” said Fanny with a sniff. Noting Marietta’s slight frown she knew she had been disloyal to their beloved but disastrous parent and added hurriedly, “Next you will say that our landlord has a tendre for me!”

  Marietta hurried into the dining room, and returning with the tea strainer, said rather tartly that she had no intention of saying such a thing since Sir Gavin was merely acting for Lord Temple and Cloud, who was really their landlord, even if he never showed his face at Lanterns.

  “And hopefully never will,” said Fanny. “He couldn’t live in that awful old place and would likely want the dower house back, and then where would we be?”

  “Besides,” said Marietta, continuing with her train of thought, “Sir Gavin is too old even for your ancient spinster sister. Why, he’s likely the same age as my father! And even if Mr. Blake Coville should have an interest in you, Fan—”

  “Oh, do stop,” said Fanny. “The reason why Sir Gavin and his son come to see us is perfectly obvious to any idiot”—she thrust the sterling silver cake plate in front of her sister’s nose—“unless she be blind as several bats.”

  Marietta glanced critically at the face refle
cted in the highly polished surface. It was, she thought, a quite nice but unremarkable face. The nose was slim, the cheekbones were high but a trifle too broad. The mouth? Well, that was not too bad, and with a pleasant curve to the rosy lower lip. But it was a resolute mouth, and the chin below it could boast not the vestige of a dimple and was too firm. The eyes, with their thick black lashes were, she had to admit, very satisfactory, and a faint glow of approval stirred in their green depths as she considered her hair. The soft near-black curls were truly her crowning glory and shone like silk, nicely setting off her very light and clear complexion. “Hmm,” she said.

  “Hmm, indeed,” exclaimed Fanny, lowering the impromptu mirror and filling it with small cakes and biscuits. “You never will admit how lovely you are. Mr. Blake Coville’s eyes light up when you come into view. And small wonder.”

  Marietta added cups and saucers to the tray. “Much wonder,” she argued. “Save for Jocelyn Vaughan, and Alain Devenish, who has vanished into the country somewhere—”

  “Like us,” inserted Fanny with a sigh.

  “Like us. Where was I? Oh, yes—Except for Vaughan and Devenish, Blake Coville must be London’s most eligible bachelor.”

  “And most handsome. Who is Jocelyn Vaughan?”

  “Heir to Lord Moulton, and cousin to Lucian St. Clair. Do you not recall when he came home from the war so badly wounded, and when he recovered all the ladies were in a flutter for fear he would wed Alicia Wyckham?”

  Fanny shrugged, re-filled the kettle, and put it on the hob. “For myself, I have no interest in highly born gentlemen,” she declared loftily. “They are all stupid. I shall marry a poor professor, or an artist, or some plain and humble man with a brain in his head. But I care for your sake, dearest. Despite your looks, you—er—”

  “I am four and twenty, and too old to attract an eligible suitor.” Marietta took up the tray. “But you are only nineteen,” she added, “and in spite of what you say I expect at any day to hear you admit you have become interested in some dashing young Corinthian.” She laughed at Fanny’s look of disgust. “Never fear, I don’t mean to press you. But I would very much like to help poor Papa, you know. Someone must save him from the odious widow!”

  Fanny crossed to open the door and murmured with a shudder, “Heavens, yes! How selfish I am. One of us must marry well and tow us out of the River Tick, as Eric would say. Please find a smile for Blake Coville, dearest! You cannot pretend you are indifferent to the gentleman.”

  Marietta turned away to hide the sudden rush of colour to her cheeks. “You have been reading too many of Mrs. Meeke’s romances! Bring the cakes and the scones, Fan. And do try to remember that we are poor as church mice and I have no dowry to recommend me to any gentleman.”

  Walking along the passage into the drawing room she refused to judge it as any less than a most comfortable and welcoming chamber. Because of the chill of the late afternoon air, she had told Bridger to set a fire, and now the tangy aroma of woodsmoke hung on the air. Sir Gavin probably judged the furnishings shabby, but they were also immaculate, the woodwork glowing, and the rugs and several objets d’art clearly having come from a gentleman’s home.

  A casual onlooker might have been surprised to note that when she and Fanny carried in the tea trays only three of the several gentlemen present rose to their feet. A closer look would have revealed the fact that five of the other ‘guests’ were breathlessly still. Indeed, they had never drawn a breath at all, for they were life-sized dolls, carefully costumed and having surprisingly realistic features.

  The Covilles were far from inanimate however. Both handsome men, when entering a room side by side they’d been known to bring all conversation to a halt. At forty-eight, Sir Gavin’s figure was trim, his dark brown hair was as thick and curled as crisply as that of his son, and the touch of grey at his temples emphasized rather than detracted from his good looks. His dark eyes were large, and some doting ladies had described them as ‘velvety,’ but they were also shrewd and intelligent. Blake Coville had inherited his father’s height and build and his mother’s deep blue eyes, and a smile lit them as he hurried to take the tray from Marietta and carry it to a low table.

  His gaze flickered over her admiringly. He was aware that, apart from their groom, the Warringtons could not afford to keep full-time servants, and that they maintained only one old and antiquated coach and three hacks. Even so, the various family members still contrived to keep up appearances and dressed well. This afternoon Miss Marietta looked charming in a gown of primrose silk, beautifully embroidered above the hem. Following Fashion’s edict, the skirt was in the new slightly shorter length which allowed a glimpse of shapely ankles (and Miss Warrington’s ankles were very shapely indeed), while the neckline was cut higher to the throat than had formerly been judged stylish. If either that creation, or Miss Fanny’s pale green muslin gown was self-made, as his father believed, Blake could only suppose that somebody in the household must be an exceptional seamstress.

  He wondered that they could find the time for dressmaking, for they seemed always to be working. If one chanced to pay an early morning call, Miss Marietta might be found dusting or mending or helping the village woman who came in twice a week. Miss Fanny was likely to be rolling out dough or preparing vegetables in the kitchen; and Sir Lionel would be puttering about in his basement workroom busied with one of his “inventions.” As for the widowed aunt who lived with them, it still made Blake uneasy to find that lady, who must be at least fifty, digging industriously in the vegetable gardens and holding merry conversations with the products of her labours. Peculiar, was Mrs. Emma Cordova, no doubt about that.

  “You should not have gone to so much trouble, Miss Marietta,” he now said in his pleasant voice. “Uninvited guests need not be catered to, you know.”

  Sir Lionel Warrington was always delighted to receive callers, and he beamed expansively. When he had married, he’d been judged a fine figure of a man, but the years had taken their toll, and after his adored Elsa had died giving birth to Arthur, his broad shoulders had bowed a little, and the abundant black hair had thinned even as the waistline had thickened. At forty-nine, uneasily aware that his character was not strong and that his gaming had brought disaster down upon them, he had become absent-minded in some respects—such as meeting the tuition costs for Arnold, who was at Harrow; and for Eric, reading for his degree at Cambridge. But he was also aware that despite his failings he was loved, and, loving in return, counted himself in many ways a fortunate man.

  “It is our pleasure to have friends around us, ain’t it, m’dears?” he said heartily.

  His two daughters agreed with polite promptitude.

  Sir Gavin Coville smiled his thanks, and told the sisters that they came like bright sunshine into the room. His ponderous gallantries always amused Marietta. She sat at the table and began to pour the tea, noting that Aunty Dova’s light brown hair was even more fly-away than usual, but that she looked quite well in a mulberry velvet gown and was responding politely to their guests.

  Praying that there would be no embarrassments, Marietta said, “I hope you will always feel assured of a welcome here when you are in the vicinity.”

  “You are too kind.” Sir Gavin accepted the cup Fanny carried to him. “But I fear this is an odd hour to pay a call. I trust we do not intrude upon your time. We had to be in the neighbourhood on a, er—matter of business.” His voice died away, and he stifled a sigh, but as if recollecting himself, went on hurriedly, “And since we were close by, we could not refrain from coming to see how you go on here.”

  “We go on well, I thank you,” said Sir Lionel. “Not perhaps as well as in days gone by. But … quite well.”

  Mrs. Emma Cordova, her round face full of mischief, confided to the “lady” beside her, “They really came to look at Lanterns, you know.” Turning to Sir Gavin she added without a pause, “Did I introduce you to Mrs. Butterfield, sir? You likely have met her son. Captain Butterfield is the most delightf
ul young man.” She leaned forward and putting up a concealing hand, whispered behind it, “The most frightful gossip, you know, but a gallant soldier.”

  Sir Gavin said with kindly gravity that he was acquainted with the lady, but not with her son.

  Blake found these inanimate ‘guests’ hilarious and had to struggle to keep his countenance. He did know George Butterfield, and said that Mrs. Cordova was quite correct about that young gentleman’s tendency to gossip.

  “Well, you know,” said Sir Lionel excusingly, “I always think that for all their faults, gossipy folk at least show an interest in others.”

  Sir Gavin stared fixedly at his son who was showing an interest in another scone, and Blake at once drew back his hand. Sir Gavin smiled. His smile became fixed when Mrs. Cordova demanded bluntly, “And why this sudden interest in Lanterns, sir?”

  “Emma!” murmured Sir Lionel, embarrassed.

  “It is, after all, my step-son’s estate, dear ma’am,” Sir Gavin pointed out.

  “It is now,” agreed Mrs. Cordova. “Not that his poor papa ever dreamt the title would come down to his son. Of course he did not, since he died when he was twelve years old. I don’t mean that Mr. Paisley died when he was twelve years old, else he’d never have had a son, would he? I mean he died when the boy was twelve.”

  Sir Gavin corrected patiently, “Eleven, actually, ma’am. Perhaps you are confusing the fact that he was twelve when I married his poor mama.”

  “I am never confused,” responded Mrs. Cordova with questionable accuracy. “If I were, I might not have noticed that you were not used to visit Lanterns as often as you’ve done these past few months. What’s to do, sir? Is Lord Temple and Cloud come to look over his home at last?”

  A grim expression darkened Blake Coville’s handsome features. Fanny gave her sister a long-suffering glance, and Sir Lionel moaned faintly.

  If Sir Gavin was annoyed, however, he maintained his aplomb, murmuring with a smile, “Now whoever told you that, ma’am?”